


Fey, or, The Story of the Inconsiderate Lodger

by Unsentimentalf



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson's lodger is brilliant but he is not always kind</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Mrs Hudson Makes a Decision

The new tenant had left this morning.

There had been an ugly little scene about the deposit. It had been clearly stated to be non-refundable, but even so she'd probably have returned the money, if it hadn't already gone to pay the most pressing of the tradesmen.

She'd spent the rest of the morning clearing out John's old consulting rooms once again. Listening, without choosing to, to the monotonous footsteps above, the occasional shout. She couldn't blame the new man for leaving. Couldn't blame herself for trying to let the rooms; she was out of credit with butcher and the greengrocer again. No-one to blame here, as usual, except him.

She ought to send a telegram to John. If ever a man needed his doctor it was Sherlock Holmes, right now. But her heart sank at the prospect. John would arrive, genial and reassuring, with annoyance at being dragged away from his domestic refuge, his paying patients, sharp underneath every word. She'd be the little woman who couldn't cope, again.

Sherlock Holmes was her tenant. If she couldn't deal with him, she ought to give him notice. No-one would blame her. She tidied away the mop and bucket again, put the kettle on, toasted muffins, arranged food and tea neatly on a silver tray only slightly dented from the last time he'd thrown it not quite at her, and knocked on his door.

No response. Just as there had been no response over the last two days. She was about to turn away- she'd have the muffins herself, for lunch- when she heard a whining, then a deep persistent bark.

She'd always considered the dog to be John's. She'd fed him of course, just as she fed all of them. But John was the one who might take him with him on his rounds, or for a stroll through the streets, doubtless to some of the places John went that she tried not to find out about. Why John hadn't taken him when he left, she didn't know. She'd suggested it, very strongly, but neither of them were in the habit of taking her opinions seriously. Maybe Mary didn't want the ugly beast, maybe John didn't want to deprive Holmes of all his company at once. Maybe Holmes had demanded the dog. John didn't say no to him.

If Holmes hadn't come out of that room for two days, neither had the poor dumb brute. She knocked harder, called out;

"Mr Holmes! Unlock the door please. I need to come in."

She had a key, of course. Didn't use it to intrude where she wasn't wanted; that sort of breach of trust between landlady and tenant, she had been told years ago, might never be healed. But the dog had dropped to whining piteously and she couldn't turn away.

She was fumbling reluctantly for the key when the door was pulled open. Holmes looked dreadful. Eyes far too bright but unfocussed. A grin that held nothing of humour. Hair askew and (she forced herself not to flinch) wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. Gladstone pushed his way forcibly between Holmes' legs, put his front legs up on the tray she'd left on the side table. As it tipped over he was grabbing at the muffins.

"Go away." Holmes said, distinctly. "There is nothing in here which requires your attentions." He was swaying, as if keeping still were near impossible.

The room was thick with tobacco smoke, and another, pungent odour. She craned her neck to look past Holmes. "The dog has fouled your carpet."

"Facts, facts, above all else. What a remarkable detective you would make, Mrs Hudson. Don't touch anything else. And be quick about it."

Gladstone had finished the muffins, was lapping thirstily at the tea split over the tray. He followed her as she went in search of the cleaning materials again. She left him shut in the yard with a bowl of scraps and another of water when she went back upstairs.

Holmes was pacing again, seeming oblivious to her work. The odour might well linger; she sighed.

"When you have quite finished," his voice was no gentler than previously, "perhaps you would be so good as to step into the street and summon a police constable."

Not without a reason, she wouldn't. Holmes was quite brilliant, but he was also not well. Last time he was like this he had called out the top detectives of the Yard over a missing half shilling. Inspector Lestrade had not been impressed at being furnished with a no doubt entirely accurate account of the habits, appearance and whereabouts of the pickpocket. It was still sixpence. Fey, she called him to herself, and desperately wished the mood over soon.

"Why do you need a policeman?" She finished clearing up the mess, wrapped the soiled papers up to be disposed of later.

"I wish to report a theft. By, I am sorry to say, none other than my own landlady. An appalling breach of trust and one that I imagine the courts will treat with appropriate harshness."

She had absolutely no idea whether he was jesting or not. She hadn't known him jest like this, but he couldn't be serious, could he? With more bewilderment than anger she stood up.

"I've never taken a thing from you, Mr Holmes. You know that very well."

"Liar." His voice now was a lazy drawl. He had stopped pacing at last, had thrown himself down into the wide leather chair, from which he watched her with a smile. "You have stolen my dog. An animal which, despite an appearance that you have always found repugnant, has a pedigree considerably more impressive than yours. A fact which I can demonstrate if you would like; his is already drawn up, yours could be done as far back as is legitimately known in a matter of moments. I understand from Dr Watson that the dog cost a great deal."

Her parents had been entirely respectable Edinburgh middle class. Her parents' parents...less so. How Holmes knew that, she could not begin to speculate. She pushed aside his appalling rudeness in favour of dealing with the more pressing issue at hand.

"I have not stolen the dog." Her voice was painfully high. She was, just about, keeping her temper. "The poor beast was starving and thirsty. You've have let it die without even noticing."

Holmes waved a hand in dismissal. "Mitigation. Try it on the judge when it comes to sentencing. As a detective I am interested in whether a crime has been committed. You have taken my property with intent to deprive me of it permanently. Theft, my dear Mrs Hudson."

"I took him downstairs to be fed." She ought not to be indulging in this ridiculous argument.

"Wrong." He was up out of the chair again, eyes sparkling. "Twice you have glanced at his lead hanging over that chair, clearly asking yourself if you dare take it. Since you have on several occasions taken the dog for a walk without feeling the need to consult me about it, you must be intending this time to take him somewhere that I might not approve. And since you re-entered the room you have not once looked over towards where the good Doctor was wont to sit, despite having to crane your neck at least once to avoid it, because, I believe, you do not want to bring the thought of Dr Watson to my attention. I deduce therefore that you are intending to take Gladstone over to John's house, probably after the grocer's boy has called."

The man was unbelievable. "The dog is in the yard. Collect him if you will. But I will not clear up his mess if you forget to let him out. He is a living creature, Mr Holmes, not a subject for your experiments."

Holmes gestured expansively. "The world is a subject for my experiments, Mrs Hudson. And please refrain from thieving in future. I will be watching you carefully."

It was the last straw. She gathered up the dirtied papers.

"You can do your experiments somewhere else, Mr Holmes. I am giving you two weeks' notice. After that I want you and your dog out of these rooms."

His grin was wild, his eyes wide. "Very well, Mrs Hudson. And now, some more muffins, if you please. You will have noticed that Gladstone ate the first ones."

His smile was so delighted that she winced. Somehow the result of the argument had pleased him.

No matter. This time she would stick to it. As she toasted the second batch of muffins she wondered whether to advertise the rooms straight away. She couldn't manage well with a loss of income between tenants, but she could hardly show prospective lodgers around the rooms in the state that Holmes kept them. Yet another loss to lay at his doorway. This one would be the last.


	2. In Which Mrs Hudson Nearly Loses a Dog and Makes an Acquaintance

It was five days since Mrs Hudson gave her ultimatum. In that time Holmes had not asked her to change her mind, but nor had he made any attempt to find new lodgings. He had not left the house, and no-one had called.

He had been grandly civil to her, his words just a little too careful, too rounded to be natural. She had been thanked for the trays of food, thanked again as she collected them, barely touched. Gladstone, still living downstairs with her, unclaimed, was eating well on the leavings. She heard her lodger pacing late into the night; he slept late until well past noon, when he slept at all.

It occurred to her, not for the first time but with an increasing degree of worry, that he might not leave. She had the record of her requiring him to go; she was careful with paperwork. There were of course legal remedies available to landladies in her position; she would have to go to court, get an eviction notice and a couple of burly policemen to enforce it. She was horrorstruck at the thought of having to stand before a judge and demand that Sherlock Holmes be physically dragged from what the world considered his place of business because of an argument about a dog. It would make the papers and she would struggle to get tenants again afterwards; she knew that.

This had gone on too long. She would send for John. She did not hope that he would support her in getting Holmes out, but she was out of options. She put together a short telegram; no more than that his friend and patient has seemed unwell for some days.

Gladstone did not appreciate post office queues. She struggled with him, handed over the message and payment, let him tow her bodily out of the building and along Baker Street towards Regent's Park. He was too heavy for her; she had to fight him to cross the busy Marylebone Road safely. The dog ploughed through the bodies waiting at the other side to cross and she was pulled after in a flutter of apologies. He was worse than usual; the effect of the post office, she imagined.

The dog pulled past passers-by, then suddenly squealed and bolted, the lead yanked from her hand. They were at the Park now; wide open spaces and too many other dogs. Gladstone had never been good at playing nicely. She had visions of a trail of throats ripped and angry owners as she chased after him, futilely calling his name.

A middle-aged man had taken to his heels in front of her, tailcoats flying as he ran full out without regard to his dignity. He caught up with the dog, stamped hard on the trailing lead and Gladstone stopped with a snort of indignation. She caught up with him, breathlessly grateful.

"You should not," he said, firmly but kindly, "be walking this big chap on his own. He's far too heavy for you." She felt his assessment as impersonal, wasn't offended. She could only agree.

"He isn't mine. I'm looking after him for someone."

"Then someone ought to be more responsible. A bulldog is not a suitable charge for a lady such as yourself." He bowed politely and she felt compelled to introduce herself.

Her rescuer's name was Professor Peter Adams. He dressed, she felt, like an academic; as if "smart" and "new" were something of a little while ago, but he was still trying. He was well spoken, though, with an accent she thought might be from the north of England. He took the dog's lead and they walked together, as if nothing were more natural. He was new to London, he told her; was in this area looking for lodgings near to the Royal Polytechnic Institution, where he was taking up a post. Perhaps she knew of somewhere? His search was not proving very successful at present.

She smiled inwardly. When things looked low, something always happened. She had, she explained, a suite of rooms currently vacant on her ground floor, since the gentleman who had occupied them for some years had recently got married. There was a lodger, she felt compelled to add, on the first floor who was inclined to be a little noisy but he was due to leave in a few days time. Other than that, it was a quiet house on Baker Street and the rooms were very comfortable, if Professor Adams cared to take a look. She saw for the lodgers herself, meals included.

Professor Adams would be delighted to inspect the rooms. Gladstone was clearly aware that the person holding his lead would not be cowed; he was subdued and well behaved on the walk home.

There was a familiar coat and hat on the coatstand as she showed the professor through the front door. It appeared that her telegram had been wasted money. Dr Watson appeared at the top of the stairs, alerted by the front door.

"Mrs Hudson. I need to talk to you urgently." His voice was unusually harsh; she imagined that Holmes had told him of the forthcoming eviction.

Well, he could wait. She introduced the professor, explained that the man was taking a look at his old rooms. "This is my ex-lodger, who I mentioned. Doctor John Watson."

"Congratulations," the professor said, cheerfully. "I understand that you are recently entered in upon matrimony."

"Yes," John was clearly torn between politeness and his need to speak to her. "If you'll excuse us..."

"I will be showing the professor around for a short while." She wasn't to be bullied by John, not with a real live godsend standing on her doormat. But she didn't want the godsend to believe her rude to her tenants. "I will be preparing some supper for Mr Holmes shortly. Can I tempt you to your usual, Dr Watson?"

"Holmes." The professor laughed in surprise. "Sherlock Holmes? Doctor Watson- of course!"

John was looking daggers at her. It would have been polite of him (and only fair, given what she had put up with over the years), to impress upon the professor the merits of the lodgings, but she had a feeling that anything he said at the moment would have the opposite effect.

Gladstone was whining and pulling at the lead. Struck by a sudden inspiration, she knelt down to release the white dog who ran up the stairs at a surprising pace to hurl himself at the doctor's legs, tail wagging enthusiastically.

"And the "someone", obviously. I won't keep you from your reunion. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, Sir." The professor gestured to Mrs Hudson to lead the way. John was on his knees trying to calm the dog. She heard him call her name again, but there was sufficient noise from Gladstone that she could pretend that she had missed it.

The professor professed himself delighted with the rooms. She drew together her nerves and suggested a price significantly more than Holmes was paying for the floor above. Adams smiled and suggested half a crown a week less. It was more than she had got from the previous, short lived tenancy; she nodded and warmly welcomed him to 221b. He did not mention Sherlock Holmes.

The first two weeks' rent was put down as deposit. The professor would go back to the Polytechnic and arrange for his belongings to be moved in straight away. Yes, he would appreciate a bite to eat, when he returned, probably in an hour or so. And she might like these...

Mrs Hudson looked down at the papers offered politely. References, of course. What had she been thinking, to forget to ask? She wouldn't look at them now, but she would at least read through them later. One didn't invite just anyone to live in one's house, after all.

She left the professor to his arrangements and stepped downstairs to the basement kitchen. The kitchen door was open, the fire had been relit, and Dr Watson was sitting on her clean kitchen table, spurning the chairs, legs crossed, contemplating her pots and pans. As she stopped at the entrance he turned.

"Now, Mrs Hudson. We need to talk."


	3. In Which Mrs Hudson Has Words with Dr Watson

Mrs Hudson had always discouraged her lodgers from visiting her kitchen. There were bell pulls if they needed anything. It was difficult enough to keep the rest of the house clean from muddy boots and tobacco smoke; she didn't want any of that in the room where she spent so much of her time. And she liked the feeling of being undisturbed there.

John Watson was no longer her lodger. But he was sitting on her table, feet up on the back of one of her two chairs, his cane resting over his thighs. She could see the mud caked to the underside of one boot, glanced down automatically to the dirt tracked onto her floor.

She was, if she was honest to herself, a little nervous of Dr Watson. It was impossible to actually cross Holmes; he brushed one aside as if one mattered nothing. But John- she had come to words with John once or twice. Always about Holmes. On his own account the doctor was invariably a gentlemen, but she had known him defend his friend's indefensible behaviour with a vehemence that was not at all mannerly.

This was going to be one of those occasions. She steeled herself.

"Please," she gestured to the chair on which John's feet rested. "Sit down. I'll make some tea."

He did at least have the courtesy to look a little shamed at that. He slid off the table, settled into the angular kitchen chair.

"Holmes says that you are evicting him." His voice was harsh.

"Yes." She filled the kettle with water, hung it over the fire.

"You can't do that." He was definite, as if him saying it was enough to make it so.

"I can." She could feel herself dropping into her old, stronger accent under the stress. "Did he tell you why?"

John shrugged. "Something about the dog. You know what he's like, Mrs Hudson. You can't take everything he says to heart." He was making no attempt to hide his irritation with her for this foolishness.

"He accused me of stealing from him." She was trying to stay calm, her indignation rising again. "Stealing, Doctor."

"Did you?"

She was reaching down cups for the tea. She nearly hurled one at the man. Instead she placed it, very carefully, down on the part of the table that had not been sat on. She picked up a cloth, damped it, wiped the rest of the table down. Only after that was done could she bring herself to respond. Very steadily.

"I'm disappointed that you think that you need to ask that, Dr Watson."

He refused to look apologetic. "If it were any other man, I wouldn't consider the notion for a moment. But we are speaking of Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Hudson. He does not make baseless accusations."

There it was. For John, Holmes could never be anything but right. The man was insufferable when it came to his precious friend. There was a broom close to hand; she resisted the temptation to chase him out of the house. But she needed to at least try to make him understand, otherwise she had no prospect of moving Holmes.

"He had Gladstone in his room for days, with no food or water. I intended to bring the dog over to you. He guessed as much, accused me of theft. For taking the dog away from his neglect." She looked straight at John.

"That's the sort of state he's been in. He said some ungentlemanly, personal things as well. I have no intention of putting up with this any more."

John sighed. "When he's like this things seem very simple to him; you were going to take the dog away without permission, and that would be theft. Your intentions were doubtless only good but you would be better not interfering. You should have called me, Mrs Hudson."

There. It had been her fault. She might have known that it would come round to this.

"There will be no next time. I will not have a lodger that thinks me dishonest."

"Sherlock Holmes does not need to think you anything, Mrs Hudson. He knows exactly how trustworthy you are, none better." He leaned back in the chair, its front legs leaving the ground and she heard herself tut automatically. As if that mattered right now.

"I will not have a lodger who calls me dishonest, then. What if Professor Adams had been here then, had overheard?"

"And that's another thing." His eyes were cold. "Where did this man come from? You cannot simply bring a strange man to live in the same house as Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Hudson. The man might be a journalist, or worse. Holmes needs absolute peace to work. Not strangers coming and going."

"So, not content with telling me who I must take as lodger, you are now going to tell me who I must not?" With a twinge of guilt she recalled the still unopened references. "You do not live here, Dr Watson. Nor, in another nine days, will Mr Holmes. I have to live, Doctor, and I have half the rent I had a couple of months ago. I need to rent out your old rooms, and since no-one in their right minds is prepared to live beneath Mr Holmes, he must find somewhere else."

John was up on his feet. "As his doctor, I am telling you that he is too unwell to be moved. He is certainly not well enough to find new lodgings."

"How convenient. If he is so unwell, maybe his doctor should be closer at hand. You have a large house, do you not?" Her voice was bitter.

Watson looked at her incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous, woman! Mary could not be expected to have him staying in the house as he is at present."

"But I am expected to have him stay in mine? Is that it? He's your friend, John, not mine. If someone needs to take this burden, take it yourself. I am tired of him."

"Out of the question." Watson reached into his jacket, pulled out a wedge of notes. "Here." He counted them out onto the table. "Holmes' next month's rent. And something over to compensate for your trouble. If you try to get him out, I'll fight it, Mrs Hudson. In court, in the papers, on your doorstep if necessary. You cannot throw a sick man out of his home and his place of business because your feelings have been slightly offended."

He turned to the doorway. "I have calmed him enough, I think, that he will take a little supper. I would be grateful if you could bring that, and some tea, up shortly."

She watched him walk out of the kitchen. She should not have been surprised, she supposed. There had been very little chance that he would care about her difficulties. She would take the money back up with supper; she was not accepting it. Holmes was going; that was all there was to it, and no amount of blustering by John Watson would change that.

In the meantime supper for three; her new charge and her old ones. Lamb chops, with a little mint, and one left over for her own supper later. She glanced outside- Gladstone was no longer in the yard. Back in Holmes' rooms, no doubt. As if she didn't have enough to worry about. Too much to hope that John would at least take him back with him. Dr Watson's new uxorious life didn't seem to involve anything of responsibility for any of the inhabitants of 221b Baker Street.


	4. In Which Mrs Hudson's Lodgers Meet

There had never been a time when Mrs Hudson could knock on Sherlock Holmes' door without feeling at least a twinge of apprehension. It used to be a comfort, knowing that Dr Watson was in there with him. It wasn't any more. She nodded politely at the doctor as the door opened and he took the tray from her.

"It seems that you have grown to like the smell of sulphur, Mrs Hudson." Holmes' voice from the sitting room was steadier than it had been for days. She stepped inside, reluctantly, catching the familiar conspiratorial smile that he flashed from his armchair at a grim Watson; the one that meant that he knew what she didn't. Irritating, certainly, but entirely as usual and in no way deranged. She raised an eyebrow, waited.

"I might have thought that a professor of chemistry might cause you some alarm, but it seems that you are a hardier soul than even I imagined.

Those darn references, still unread... "I am sure," she said tartly, "that Professor Adams will not bring his experiments home with him. He seems to be a most considerate gentlemen." The slightest of stresses on the word "considerate" would not go unmarked.

"Considerate gentleman?" Holmes' response moved the stress to the second word. "I wonder."

Watson placed the tray down, whisked the covers off. Holmes sniffed appreciatively. "This smells delightful, Mrs Hudson. I imaging that you are taking a similar dish to the professor?"

She nodded.

"In that case would you be so good as to extend to him my compliments and assure him that should he step up this way after supper I would be delighted to make his acquaintance over a glass of malt?"

John was watching her with sharp, calculating eyes. She could not prevent her lodgers from meeting. She nodded again.

"Thank you. I am sure that you'll find the professor an appreciative charge, Mrs Hudson. A widower with no close acquaintances in the City is bound to be grateful for a woman's care. Just remember, chance meetings are not always what they seem."

Holmes' voice had dropped to serious. She could not look into those brown eyes and not believe that, for the moment at least, he had her welfare in mind.

If they had been alone then she would have asked him if he intended to leave. Asked him if he was offended by her actions, if he understood her reasons. But they were not alone. She found herself back on the stairs with no more idea of his plans, if he had them, than before. And she had forgotten to bring John's money up with her.

The professor was grateful for supper, seemed in a mood to chat. Remembering the detective's words she found herself avoiding questions to him about his past or his position. Instead she proffered Holmes' invitation and Adams looked utterly delighted, which she felt left her free to wish him a good evening and return to her kitchen.

Not long after supper until she heard a heavy tread on the stairs, men's voices raised in greeting, a door closing. She stayed in the kitchen, finding herself small jobs, waiting, until she was too tired to do more than rest her head on her hands. She was woken by the sound of the front door closing, and then the professor's door. She started up, the notes in her hand, but by the time she got out into the dark street there was a cab disappearing around the corner.

It didn't matter. She would return the money to John next time she saw him. Nothing legal hinged upon the fact that she held it. Tomorrow she would make it clear to Mr Holmes that she still expected him to leave a week on Friday.

She had a new lodger. Her financial problems were, for the moment, eased. Professor Adams seemed a reliable man (and she would read the references, first thing tomorrow). Mr Holmes appeared much improved; she need not worry about turfing a sick man out of his rooms. Everything looked far better that night than it had done on the previous morning. Still, she slept badly, found herself awake in the early hours, wishing, as she had not wished for some years, that she had someone to share these things with. Told herself to stop being ridiculous, turned on her side and forced herself firmly back into sleep.

The professor answered the quiet knock next morning with a slightly unfocussed look. Mrs Hudson had already turned away when he cleared his throat.

"Might I have a few moments?"

"Of course." She stepped into the parlour, noting how the professor's jacket and boots were left astray in a very similar way to the doctor had been accustomed to leave his, after a heavy night.

She took the proffered chair, smiled warmly.

"You will, please, tell me if this is none of my concern." He was still standing, his hand tight against the back of the chair.

"I understand from Dr Watson that there is some dispute about Sherlock Holmes' lodgings."

She damned John, silently. Of course he would not have played fair.

"Dr Watson is under a misapprehension," she said, tightly. "There is no dispute. Mr Holmes is due to leave a week this Saturday."

"Dr Watson believes that there has been a misunderstanding. About the dog. And that it is not necessary for Sherlock Homes to vacate the rooms that have been his home for some years."

She could hear John's words echoed precisely. Wanted to tell the man to keep out of this, couldn't. She needed him not to think her capricious and unreasonable. Ironic, given all that she had tolerated over the years.

"As the doctor knows full well, Mr Holmes' methods and business are extremely disruptive to the household. A disruption which I have put up with, without complaint, for years. However since Dr Watson left, I have been unable to find tenants prepared to put up with the major inconvenience caused by having Mr Holmes in the rooms above. I would certainly not expect you to do so."

She took a breath. "Without burdening you with personal details, Professor Adams, I am sure you will recognise that running a house of this size with half the rooms lying empty is not something that I can do indefinitely."

The professor was frowning slightly. She guessed that he was about to claim that he would be quite content with Holmes as a fellow tenant. That, for her, wasn't all the issue any more. She made a stab in the dark; no, more a small deduction of her own, from what the professor had said and her lodger hadn't.

"Dr Watson seems unwilling to accept these realities but I believe that Mr Holmes understands the position perfectly."

Adams nodded, reluctantly. "Mr Holmes did not express any views on the subject in my presence."

There. Watson might have tried to recruit him, but without the supposed injured party adding his voice to the matter, the professor could hardly make this an issue.

The professor nodded again, as if making up his mind. "I would like to make it clear that I would have no objection to Mr Holmes living in this house. However if this matter has been settled between the two of you then I certainly will not interfere. Thank you for your explanation."

And that was that. It wouldn't be the end of the doctor's campaign, but at least she had seen off one sortie.


	5. In Which Mrs Hudson's New Lodger is Obliging and her Old Lodger Is Not

The dog was up from his place by the fire, whining and wagging his stubby tail rapidly in a paroxysm of delight. Thus forewarned Mrs Hudson was already on her feet by the time the knock came on the kitchen door.

“Good evening, Professor.” She nodded politely to the man bundled up in coat and hat. 

“Good evening, Mrs Hudson. I see our boy is up and raring to go.”

It hadn’t taken Sherlock Holmes’ powers of deduction to reach that conclusion. Gladstone’s long untended claws were scratching at the dark wool coat while he tried to lick at her lodger’s hands with enthusiasm. 

“There’s really no need.” Mrs Hudson said, knowing the words were futile but unable not to at least attempt polite discouragement. This was the fourth evening that Professor Adams had stopped by her kitchen to offer to take Gladstone for a walk and on the three previous occasions he had swept past her objections to do just that. “You must not think that the dog is in any way your responsibility.”

“I have been mouldering in the laboratory all day.” the professor said cheerfully. “A bracing walk on the common is precisely what I am sure the doctor would order. Besides, this fine chap and I are firm friends by now. We will enjoy each other’s company immensely.”

There was no doubt but that Gladstone had taken to the professor, which was unsurprising since no-one else in the house found any time for him. Holmes had not so much as asked about him since Mrs Hudson had brought the dog down to live in the kitchen. 

Mrs Hudson spread her hands in defeat and passed over the rope lead, causing the white bulldog to jump higher, wag faster and whine a great deal louder. The professor slipped the lead on and held it without obvious difficulty despite Gladstone’s desperate scrabbling to get outside. 

“We will be out for around three quarters of an hour, I think,” the professor said. “Maybe a pot of tea might be available on my return? It is a little chilly out this evening.”

“Of course,” Mrs Hudson assured him. “Thank you. I am very grateful. Please do let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you?”

“A fresh pot of tea before supper will be all I need,” the professor assured her, and to Gladstone with what appeared to Mrs Hudson to be entirely superfluous encouragement, “Come on, boy. Let’s go for a good long walk.”

Mrs Hudson sank down into the chair in front of the fire, for a moment just appreciating the silence. Since Professor Adams had taken John’s old rooms she had felt as if she were constantly busy shopping, cooking and cleaning for the two men with the dog always underfoot in what had been her quiet kitchen refuge. She glanced over to the still unopened envelope of references on the sill above the hearth. She could open it now, she supposed, but instead of getting to her feet yet again she closed her eyes. 

The bell jangled her into awakeness. She glanced at the clock, realising that she’d dozed unintentionally. It was nearly time that she put the kettle on the hob for Professor Adam’s tea and started preparations for supper, but she would have to find out what Holmes wanted first. With a small sigh she rose to her feet and set off up the stairs. 

“Ah, the estimable Mrs Hudson.” Holmes greeted her as if he’d never spoken to her with anything but the most perfect of manners. “How is our wizard of alchemy setting in?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes?” 

“Professor Adams, Mrs Hudson. The latest fat and fluffy pigeon in your Baker Street roost. I saw him through this very window walking towards Regent’s Park with what looked remarkably like my dog half an hour ago.” 

“Your...” She stopped herself from speaking before she could say something unforgivably impolite, took a breath and started again. “You will be taking your dog with you, of course.”

“Taking it where?” Holmes looked genuinely confused. 

“In three days time, when your notice expires and you move out of these rooms. You will take the dog with you. Of course.” 

Holmes frowned at her. “And where would I keep a dog if I have no lodgings? Come, Mrs Hudson, this confused thinking is not like you. Let me ask you a straightforward question. Can you feed one extra mouth this evening?”

“Will that be Dr Watson?” she asked. Supper was liver and onions; too late to buy more but the doctor should have her share and she would toast what was left of the morning bread with a little butter and jam for herself.

“There, you see. There is a functioning brain somewhere under that grievous hairdo.” Holmes smiled happily at her. 

“It would be easier,” she told him strictly, “if you could let me know about these things a little further in advance. But yes, the doctor may of course have his supper here if he wishes.” There was little point in chiding Holmes; not only did he take no notice whatsoever but in three days he would be gone, or so she hoped. “About taking the dog.”

“The dog, always the dog, Mrs Hudson.” Holmes turned gracefully in a circle on his heel and back to face her. “You should concern yourself a great deal less about that poor dumb brute and a great deal more about the humans under your roof. Talking of whom, shouldn’t you have the kettle on for his tea by now?”

She should have the kettle on the hob and supper started. Holmes turned away from her and stood at the window looking down on Baker Street. “That was all, thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he said dismissively. “John should be here in the next half hour, if you would be so good as to show him up.” 

“Dr Watson hardly needs to be shown the way upstairs in this house,” Mrs Hudson said to Sherlock’s back. “But I will listen out for the doorbell, of course.” She would just have to talk to John, that was all, make it absolutely clear that one of them must take the dog away.

She glanced around the room before she left. Not tidy, of course, far from it, but nothing was bubbling or smelling and there had been neither foundation shaking explosions, gunshots nor the unbearable wailings of the violin late at night for the last week. For once this unusually civilised behaviour on the part of Holmes did not reassure her in the slightest. 

Fortunately for her slipped schedule the professor was a little later returning from his walk than he had anticipated. Mrs Hudson was carefully tipping the boiling water from the heavy kettle into the rose patterned china teapot as she heard the front door open, then close again. She waited for the knock on the kitchen door but when it didn’t come after a couple of minutes she finished off the tray and carried it out.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” the professor said with his invariable grave civility, taking it from her hands. “Most welcome, I assure you.”

She glanced round his rooms (slightly disarrayed as usual, but they might represent the epitome of tidiness itself after Holmes) then back to him. “Excuse me, but where is the dog?” she asked, cautiously. 

He laughed. “My apologies. I didn’t intend to startle you with his absence. Gladstone was quite overjoyed to be reunited with his master as we came back up the street. I believe both man and dog went upstairs.”

So that’s why she hadn’t heard Dr Watson ring the doorbell. Mrs Hudson was both annoyed and somewhat relieved to have missed her opportunity to speak to him without Holmes there. The situation was becoming ridiculous. Holmes was to leave in three days time and she still had seen no sigh of any intention on his part to move out, yet nor had he indicated that he was going to refuse to do so. It was most aggravating. 

And as for the dog, well, if Holmes or indeed John refused to remove their property from the premises in a reasonable time then she had the right to sell it. She knew the law. She hardened her heart against the thought of that wagging stub of a tail. These were respectable lodgings, not a boarding kennels. Certainly not an unpaid boarding kennels.

Mrs Hudson returned to the kitchen where the cast iron frying pan was already growing hot on the hob. She started to slice the onions, blinking against the tears in her eyes. She’d been looking forward to that bit of liver; with a brief sense of doing something slightly wicked she sliced a little off the end of the piece before she divided it into three for the men’s supper. It wasn’t sufficient for a meal for her but it would be pleasant to have with the toast and a cup of tea later. With such domestic thoughts she managed to distract herself from her various concerns about her current and previous lodgers at least until the time came to take them up their neatly covered trays.


	6. In Which Mrs Hudson is Insulted in a Manner No Lady Should Have to Tolerate

As Mrs Hudson approached the second floor door along the red and brown geometrically patterned rugs (now noticeably mud stained from John’s boots and Gladstone’s paws; she would have to get the beater out tomorrow when the mud had dried) she could not help but hear John’s raised voice from the other side.

“...old biddy get her way!”

Mrs Hudson did not pause. Nothing would induce her to listen for so much as an instant at her lodgers’ doors even if they might be talking about her. She deposited the large brass tray on the side table with sufficient force that a little of the contents sloshed out of the gravy boat and stained the cream lace tray cover, then knocked a little harder than usual.

The doctor opened the door. His face was a little flushed and his greeting more than a little abrupt. “Mrs Hudson. Supper, I suppose.”

“Well, now, speak of the devil and he, or in this case she, appears,” Holmes drawled from his position flat on his back on the sofa. Mrs Hudson glared at him. He must have known she had overheard John’s outburst. He might at least have pretended for politeness’s sake that the man had been talking of someone else. 

“We will not speak of him in my house, Mr Holmes, thank you very much. Yes, Dr Watson, your supper. Will there be anything else?” 

“You have offended our...my pardon..._my_ landlady, John, and hardly surprising. What in heaven’s name induced you to be so rude about the poor woman?”

Dr Watson reddened further, apparently torn between shame and anger. “You know quite well what the matter is, Sherlock!” he snapped at Holmes and then rounded on Mrs Hudson. “And as for you, I cannot believe that you are persisting in this nonsense!” 

The doctor’s voice echoed painfully loudly around the open landing. Mrs Hudson was certain that the professor taking the supper she’d carried to him in his room below just minutes before could not help but hear the disturbance. 

She picked up the tray and pushed it into John’s hands. “Your supper is getting cold, Dr Watson. I suggest that if you and Mr Holmes have something to discuss with me then you do so in the privacy of his rooms and without putting good food to waste.” 

Gladstone had rolled to his feet from beside the sofa and come to investigate the aroma from the tray. John struggled for a moment with the heavy tray and the dog up on his hind feet panting before stepping backwards into the room. “We will discuss this after supper, then.” he told Mrs Hudson. “The matter has gone far enough. I will not leave the house until it is resolved.”

“I trust,” Mrs Hudson said sharply, “that you will leave my house when requested to do so, Dr Watson. Nevertheless I will come up again in half an hour and you may say whatever it is you have to say to me then.”. 

“Excellent,” Holmes said from the sofa. “Do bring some of those delicious fresh scones with you when you come, Mrs Hudson, and tea.”

Mrs Hudson reached her kitchen and closed the door behind her. She felt both mortified and angry. How dare Dr Watson, for so long her dutifully cared-for lodger, call her an ‘old biddy’? How dare Holmes laugh at her? She was certain that he had been laughing. And to make such a scene within the professor’s hearing! Neither man had the slightest appreciation for her position. 

Without conscious decision she had already relit the warm oven and got out the bag of flour, the sugar and the pat of butter that had been intended for her supper. To make a batch of scones took only a few minutes and very little of her attention. Mrs Hudson had intended to use this time to fry the extra piece of liver for herself but she had lost all appetite. 

John looked a little calmer when he opened the door a second time. “May I help you with those?” he asked politely and relieved her of the tea tray. 

“Do please come in, Mrs Hudson. ” Holmes was sitting with his knees up and his slippers on the sofa this time, the dog curled at his feet.

Mrs Hudson entered, a little hesitantly, and Dr Watson put down the tray so that he could clear a pile of books off an armchair for her. She sat down, back straight and hands folded on her lap as the door was closed.

“Now,” she said, “Dr Watson. Mr Holmes. What is it that you have to say to me?”

“This has been Sherlock’s home for years, and his workplace. You cannot seriously intend to evict him.” John said.

Mrs Hudson glanced around the room. “This has been my home for far longer,” she told John firmly. “It was my husband’s family home, God rest his soul, and I moved into it the day that we were married. There is no court of law in the country that would deny that the house belongs to me and that I have the right after giving due notice to evict any lodger.”

“I am not talking about the law,” Dr Watson snapped at her. “I am talking about common decency.”

“Believe me, Dr Watson,” she said, “there is nothing either common or decent about the things that I have put up with over the years. I have had enough. That is the end of the matter, unless Mr Holmes have anything to say on the subject?”

Holmes looked across at her, seemingly distracted. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Who feeds the dog?”

“I do. You know that very well,” she said.

“And who walks him?”

“At the moment I am reliant on the goodwill of Professor Adams to do so. It is fortunate for the poor beast that the professor is a most obliging gentleman. But you know that as well, Mr Holmes. You commented on it earlier.”

“And who owns him?”

“It was my wager that won him as a pup,” John said reluctantly. “Though if you recall we agreed...”

“And yet who does he think is his master?”

They all looked at Gladstone, rolled on his back on the sofa and snuffling happily around Holmes’ Turkish slippers, his tail wagging. 

“He neither knows nor cares that I am the foremost consulting detective in the world,” Holmes said smugly. “And yet he knows by instinct what the order of pre-eminence should be.”

“He is an ignorant dumb creature,” Mrs Hudson said. “I hardly see the relevance to your tenancy.”

“And yet you brought the scones.”

Mrs Hudson stood up from the chair at that. “I do trust that you are not in any way comparing me to a dog, Mr Holmes.”

“Creatures of instinct, both of you. His to eat and sleep and get in the way, yours to feed and clean and complain. It is no more significant that the house is legally assigned to you as if it had been assigned to my waggy white friend there. After all you can no more refuse your natural calling to bring me scones and tea than the dog can refuse his natural adoration”

“Sherlock!” John seemed to think that his friend’s assertion had gone too far. Mrs Hudson knew it had.

“The dog likes you,” she told Holmes “merely because you leave my best crockery on the floor for his filthy tongue to scour. You will take him with you when you leave on Friday or I give you warning that I will take him down to the market on Monday and sell him to whatever dog fighter or bull baiter I may encounter.” 

“Saturday,” Holmes said cheerfully.

“Pardon?”

“If you consult my tenancy agreement you will find that the period of notice is two weeks and one day. Saturday.”

“Saturday, then,” she told him. “As long as you and the dog go why should I care?”

“That extra day is important,” he told her. “On Friday you may still be under the mistaken impression that I am leaving.”

“You are leaving,” she told him, “if I have to call the police and hire bailiffs and the matter ends up in the courts and the newspapers. I have tolerated a great deal over the years but no lady should have to tolerate the sort of language I have heard tonight from you. And as for you,” she turned to Dr Watson, “I believe that your Mary would be ashamed of the way you stood by and let a respectable woman be called such things. Goodnight to the both of you.” 

She found herself out on the landing, as she slammed the door behind her, still shaking with fury and her face wet.


	7. In Which Mrs Hudson Acquires An Unwanted and Inapposite Ally

As Mrs Hudson paused on the landing, she heard a door open from directly below. 

It was unthinkable that the professor should see her like this. She scrubbed frantically at her eyes. However she might blame the onions he would know that she had allowed herself to argue, and cry, at her other lodgers. A man who seemed such a paragon of calm and respectability would surely not appreciate discovering his landlady was given to brawling and hysterics. 

Brisk footsteps along the landing stopped for a moment then started to descend down to the ground floor and the front door. Mrs Hudson breathed a sigh of relief. She was half way down the final flight of stairs before she realised that she had heard the rattle of the key in the front door but no sound of it closing again. 

He was standing in the porch, his hand on the door knob and flickering light from the street shining through the small gap. Letting the cold air in, Mrs Hudson thought distractedly. The professor had turned back from the door and was looking straight at her. 

“Mrs Hudson?” His tone was a gentle query. 

“Good evening Professor. Please don’t let me keep you from your excursion.” 

“My excursion? Ah.” He pulled the door closed with the air of a man who had half forgotten why he’d opened it. “I thought I might pick up a copy of the final edition but it is most likely that I am already too late. It wasn’t of any significance.”

She was now trapped on the stair. She had no excuse to go back up and he no reason to stay downstairs. He was waiting, gentleman that he was, for her to descend first. There was nothing else to be done, though she knew her face was still blotched and her eyes red. 

As she feared he would he stopped her as she passed. “Is everything all right, Mrs Hudson? Are you quite well?”

“It is nothing at all, Professor. Please do not concern yourself.” She had a sudden, terrible vision of him climbing the stair to remonstrate with Holmes and Holmes doing something- in the mood he was in she had no notion as to what but it would surely drive her new lodger away. 

The professor was tenacious in his concern and it was only the eventual promise that he could make her tea (using her kettle in her kitchen- a most reluctant concession) and sit with her for a few moments to ensure that she was fully recovered that finally satisfied him. Mrs Hudson would much have preferred to make her own brew and drink it in solitude but she knew that when a man had clearly determined that he must Do Something to Help it was generally best to divert him to something relatively innocuous such as boiling the kettle under strict supervision. 

Fortunately a professor of chemistry turned out to be an apt pupil for the brewing of tea. He followed her instructions precisely and the tea was consequently quite drinkable. She was just finishing the second cup when there was the noise of a door from upstairs and a heavy tread on the stair . The professor appeared not to have noticed. He was placing his teacup carefully back on the tray. 

“What a marvellously antique design of skillet,” he said, moving to where an old pan hung on the wall behind the door. “I have not seen quite its like recently.” 

Me Hudson said something about her grandmother but she was barely paying attention. She could hear Dr Watson's familiar step down the hall to where she had left the kitchen door ajar. His face appeared at it like thunder. He didn't look around the room before he spoke. 

“I am leaving now, Mrs Hudson but I shall be back tomorrow, unless you promise to cease this ludicrous business right now.”

“Goodnight to you, Dr Watson.” Mrs Hudson said, her voice steady. “Will you be taking the dog away with you now?”

The doctor cursed the thrice damned dog and the professor coughed loudly. 

“Professor!” Watson turned around, startled. “I was not aware that you were present.” 

“Obviously not.” Professor Adams said coldly. “Perhaps you would care to explain your conduct towards the lady?”

Watson paused for a moment. “Certainly,” he said. “It will serve to warn you that in taking rooms here you are placing yourself in the hands of a callous and unreasonable woman who may evict you at any time upon a whim.” 

“Doctor Watson!” Mrs Hudson said sharply. “Did you ever have any reason to complain of my conduct towards you for the many years that you lived under my roof?”

“Can you deny that you propose to evict Sherlock Holmes, one of the foremost men in London, from his longstanding home and place of business and despite my report as his doctor that he is not well enough to move, over the trivial matter of a dog? Have you not lived here for all these years most comfortably upon his rent and mine? Where is your gratitude, woman!” 

“Your rent!” She must not argue with him in front of her lodger but really! “Would that be the rent that so frequently was one, two, even three months late so that I must scrimp and borrow for the food to put in front of you and Mr Holmes? The Whitechapel bookies made a far more comfortable living upon your funds than I! And yet not once, not once did I suggest that you leave.” She took a deep breath. “You know full well that Mr Holmes’ recent misconduct goes far beyond a trivial matter and I will not be further abused in my own house, Doctor, by either of you gentlemen!”

The professor had stepped in front of her, facing Watson. “Now the reason for the lady's distress is all too clear. You will not bully her in this fashion, sir! I think it is long past time that you made your apologies and made your way home.”

The doctor glared at him for a couple of seconds then turned on his heel and stalked out.

“And unpleasant incident,” the professor said. “I suggest that if he returns tomorrow you leave him cooling his heels on the doorstep.”

“He has a key.” Mrs Hudson said, and hurriedly, realising how that might sound, “Not to his old rooms, of course. That would be completely improper. But a front door key, so that he may come to call upon his friend when I am out. Mr Holmes is often too distracted to answer the door himself.” 

“Very well,” Professor Adams said. “Then we must plan accordingly. It is clearly imperative that you are not left alone. I will send a telegram to the Royal Polytechnic. One of my colleagues can take my students for a day.” 

Mrs Hudson was horrified at the impropriety of her lodger taking time off to deal with her problems. “There is really no need to do anything of the sort. Doctor Watson is merely a little agitated. He will doubtless be calmer in the morning.” 

“Doctor Watson deserves horsewhipping,” the professor said cheerfully. “I have no intention of leaving you to deal with him alone. There is also the matter of Sherlock Holmes. I think it would probably be best if I spoke to him. Unless you think the police should do it?”

“Certainly not!” Mrs Hudson said. 

“Very well, I shall ascend to his rooms for a word after breakfast, and I shall spar with the obnoxious physician again as and when he makes good on his threat to reappear. I believe that is everything that needs to be decided tonight, so if you are sufficiently recovered I shall make my way to bed.” 

“There is really no need to engage yourself at all on my behalf ” Mrs Hudson insisted. “Mr Holmes will leave on Saturday and that will be the end of the matter.” 

“Then I shall not have to engage myself very far,” the professor said. “I have had a number of deliveries of books and other objects recently and a day spent sorting and cataloguing them will improve the state of my living room considerably. It is no imposition whatsoever, I assure you.” 

He picked up his hat and bowed. “Poached eggs for breakfast would be splendid, if you would be so kind, and maybe a slice of bacon.Goodnight to you, Mrs Hudson.”

She pulled the kitchen door closed behind him. Alone at last. What a dreadful day it had been. Five days, she told herself. Five days and Sherlock Holmes would surely be gone for good.


	8. In Which Mrs Hudson's Carpets are Badly Affected By A Terrible Event

It had been the habit of many years with Mrs Hudson to commence the delivery of breakfast with the long climb up to the top rooms. Once Sherlock had been faced or her knock ignored she could return to the kitchen, finish frying the doctor's eggs and climb again, less far. On a quiet day she might be invited to take tea with Dr Watson and they would chat for a few minutes until it was time for his surgery and her daily shopping trip to begin. 

Subsequent to John’s departure she had maintained the custom of taking the detective his breakfast first. It enabled her to take a measure of the likely disruptions in the house for the day and any extra demands that might be placed on her. The latter was seldom as useful as it might seem ; Sherlock being Sherlock, he might well dismiss her and breakfast as useless to him only to ring the bell with uncompromising urgency as soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs, but she did her best to impose some sort of order on the chaos and he morning ritual was part of that. 

It was a sign therefore of the disturbance and confusion in Mrs Hudson's thoughts that she found herself knocking on the professor's door at seven thirty rather than seven forty five, the stairs above as yet unclimbed. It being merely the seventh day of the professor's residence in Baker Street, he could not have been expected to be aware of the significance of the arrival of poached eggs, buttered toast and and a slice of bacon a full fifteen minutes before the time honoured hour. He thanked her briefly and took the tray. She could see boxes in the centre of the room behind him, some opened, and books piled on the floor. Apparently the sorting out had already begun. 

“At what time would you like morning tea?” she asked, that being easier than asking directly whether he had discarded the plan for his unwise and unnecessary visit to Sherlock Holmes to remonstrate on her behalf. 

“Eleven o'clock will be perfect, thank you Mrs Hudson. Has Mr Holmes yet had his breakfast?”

“Not yet.” She was slightly flustered to have to admit to it but the professor seemed unsurprised. 

“Them perhaps you would be kind enough to convey my regards when you deliver it along with this note." 

He had moved to his desk and was writing rapidly. The note was folded and handed to Mrs Hudson who tucked it reluctantly in her apron pocket. She might have brought herself to protest had the professor again declared his intention to speak to Sherlock on her behalf but she could hardly presume to interfere in the passage of private correspondence between her lodgers, whatever she might suspect about the note's contents. 

Sherlock did not answer her knock with breakfast. She called through the door than he had a note from the professor, but she was not sure that he would hear her over Gladstone's steady deep bark. It was certain that Holmes could not be asleep, not through that noise. After a few minutes she left the tray and the note on the table outside his door and retreated. calling upon Professor Adams on the way down to briefly report her lack of success. Then she picked up her shopping bags and left the house with a sense of relief.

The house was quiet when she returned, the dog asleep or absent. She glanced up the stairs, wondering if Holmes’ tray was still untouched. Her feet hurt; she would fetch it when she took the Professor his tea.

There was silence from above as she skinned the two rabbits that she’d purchased from the market for a stew. She hoped that the Professor would not object to country fare tonight but there could be no more money now from the top rooms until they had been rendered habitable again and relet, and the rabbits had been cheap. She’d have to find the money for beef or chicken tomorrow, though. She could not in all conscience feed her new paying lodger on rabbits and cheap liver for long.

A sudden series of thumps made her start and almost cut her thumb with the skinning knife. That was something heavy falling down the stairs. What was Holmes up to now? She laid her task aside, rinsed her hands swiftly and set out to find which of her furniture was being abused this time. 

As Mrs Hudson turned onto the first floor landing she gave a gasp of horror. The Professor was lying motionless on the stairs, head downwards and arms sprawled outwards. 

“Mr Holmes!” she shouted. “Mr Holmes” I need your help!” She knelt down beside the prone man’s head and he groaned. Alive at least. “Mr Holmes!” The door above remained shut.

She must get help. A doctor, and someone to lift the man; he was beyond her capacity to move. “Mr Holmes!” she shouted again, but without any expectation of a response. 

“Mrs Hudson?” That came from downstairs. She recognised it with relief. “Doctor Watson! Come quickly, the Professor has had an accident!” 

Kneeling beside her, the doctor reached to the man’s neck for a pulse. 

“Damn.” His hand had come away red with blood. “I must find out where he is bleeding. There is not room to turn him here; we must get him onto the landing, Mrs Hudson. Where is Sherlock?”

“I called for him.” She stood. “He must be in his room.” 

“Find him, Mrs Hudson, or failing that, find a bystander who can help me move the man. And swiftly!”

The breakfast tray was gone from outside Sherlock’s unlocked door. It was the work of but seconds to search the entire set of rooms. Neither Sherlock nor the dog were present.

Mrs Hudson made her way down the stairs again, not quite running, the image of the Professor’s slip vivid in her mind. The street was quiet but she ran into the public house on the corner and the gasped promise of a shilling apiece brought two sturdy lads back with her. With their help Doctor Watson lifted the now unconscious man and laid him down again on the clean linoleum. Then they turned him carefully over onto his back.

The first thing that Mrs Hudson saw was the amount of blood, pooled all over his shirt and jacket. The second was the hilt of the knife jutting up from his shoulder.

“God be damned.” one of the lads said. “He’s been murdered!”

“He’s not dead yet.” Watson said. “Mrs Hudson, I need boiled water and clean linen. Hurry!”

It took near upon an hour before the doctor sat back and pronounced himself sufficiently satisfied with the still unconscious man’s state to permit his movement to his bedchamber. The young men had not even waited on the promised shillings before disappearing; Mrs Hudson guessed that they did not want to risk any possible involvement with the Law. Fortunately it was a short distance along the landing to the professor's door and Mrs Hudson was able to assist the doctor in getting him to his bed.

“Should we not call the police?” she asked, somewhat tentatively. The doctor might after all be considered almost a detective himself and should be an authority on these matters. 

John frowned. “Since it is not after all a matter of murder but of assault, it might be best to see if he wishes to press charges against his assailant when he awakens. Did he have any appointments or visitors this morning, Mrs Hudson?”

“He mentioned no visitors, though one might have arrived while I was out. If there was another person up here though, I do not know where they could have been hidden. I heard his fall from the kitchen and came straight out. No-one was in the hall or passed me on the stair and as you can see there is no-one in here now.”

“Remarkable,” the doctor said. “Well, it seems that we must wait for either Sherlock to return so that he can apply his deductive powers or for the professor to awake. Wait, what is that?”

As Mrs Hudson had picked up the professor’s jacket with the intention of attempting to clean off the bloodstains a piece of paper had fallen from the pocket. Doctor Watson swooped on it and unfolded it.

“A clue! Listen to this! ‘Sir, If it is convenient to you I will call upon you at ten o’clock this morning with the intention of discussing your recent conduct. Yours etc Professor P Adams.’ Well. Mrs Hudson, it appears that the professor did indeed have a quarrel brewing, no doubt with the man who stabbed him. This matter gets clearer. Now all we need to know is who the note was addressed to.”

Mrs Hudson sighed. “It was delivered to Mr Holmes this morning.”

“To Sherlock? How can you be certain?”

“Because the professor asked me to deliver it for him. I was not of course aware of the contents but that is undoubtedly the same note. I saw him tear the page from his pocket book and write it, and I left it on the tray outside Mr Holmes’ door with his breakfast.”

She picked up the narrow knife. “And I am surprised that you did not notice that this belongs to Mr Holmes; it has been lying on the walnut bureau for over a month after he used it to open a letter, his normal letter opener having been temporarily misplaced under the dog.”

John turned on her. “That is a ridiculous and unworthy accusation, Mrs Hudson!”

She drew herself up to her full height, some way below his. “I made no accusation. I merely provided what Mr Holmes would doubtless refer to as the facts. If he returns you may apply to him for confirmation about both the note and the paperknife.” 

The doctor was still glaring at her. “And the nature of this conduct that the professor took exception to? Do you know that too?”

“I will not speculate about the personal affairs of my gentlemen lodgers, Doctor Watson,” she said, shamed inside at her mendacity, but she could not in all reason manage any more of the doctor’s anger right now. 

The poor professor was badly hurt, Sherlock was missing and her stair carpets had stains that might take days of scrubbing to remove. If the police became involved in a quarrel between her lodgers it would be all over the papers and even if Professor Adams did not immediately give notice, her chances of reletting the top rooms would fade away. It had been a dreadful morning at the end of a dreadful week and she wanted nothing more than to retreat to her bedroom and cry.

She glanced down at the bloodstains. Cold water immediately and lots of it. Mr Holmes would insist that it was a crime scene and not to be touched but Mr Holmes was not here and these were her carpets. “If there is no further help I can render to the Professor I should start to clean up. Would you like me to bring you a cup of tea, Doctor Watson?” she asked, politely. 

“Tea, yes,” the doctor said. “I will wait for the professor to wake and then we will find out what is behind this nonsense of yours.” He took the chair by the bed and started to read yesterday’s discarded Times. Mrs Hudson went down to her kitchen to put the kettle on the hob and sort out cold water and cloths for the scrubbing.


End file.
